


expensive mistakes

by Lleavingwonderland



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Free Verse, Luke is very bitter, Luke's journey till TLO, aka Sad Luke Hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:18:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lleavingwonderland/pseuds/Lleavingwonderland
Summary: "After years at 'the only safe place on earth for people like us' the illusion starts to crumblesafe doesn’t mean safe because his father is a godand he didn’t get a choice when the monsters came for the gold blood in his veinsand summer camp doesn’t mean summer camp because archery and capture the flag turn into base camp in a false warand child soldiers"sing o muse of Luke Castellan god-born—the enemy of the gods that the gods created





	expensive mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> a [largely incoherent] free verse aka sad luke hours aka i just read the Iliad and now I Am Homer.

a hero becomes a failure with the hard downward stroke of a dragons claw  
and the pain screams out from his broken skin as blood clouds his vision  
and he careens blindly out of the path of danger  
and back into obscurity  
his hopes of glory destroyed and his thoughts growing ever louder on the journey back  
not home, never home, only the camp  
and no family either, only pitying gazes of strangers that linger on his ruined face  
and a crushing feeling that this paltry quest thrown to him was the only chance he would ever get  
and now its over

it didn’t start like this  
he grew up and he went to school  
and he just wanted something different.   
and he thought he was worthy of the adventure and the adversity when it came to him.   
when he thought he was taking his destiny into his own hands  
oh foolish hero, the fates don’t relinquish control so easily

he says “the only person who ever cared about me—  
“the only person who ever cared about me died in my arms because of the rule of the gods”  
he says “the gods gave me life and took it away in equal measure”  
what kind of life is this when your father left your mother, never intending to stay?  
what kind of life is this when your mother is insane?  
what kind of life is this when the search for freedom becomes a fight to survive?  
what kind of life is this when a safe haven becomes a prison?  
what kind of life is this if it isn’t on your own terms?  
this is no life at all, he says, sharpens his blade, “no life at all.”

and after years at “the only safe place on earth for people like us” the illusion starts to crumble  
safe doesn’t mean safe because his father is a god   
and he didn’t get a choice when the monsters came for the gold blood in his veins   
and summer camp doesn’t mean summer camp because archery and capture the flag turn into base camp in a false war   
and child soldiers  
year in   
year out  
and he scrapes the food into the flames every night thinking “they don’t deserve it”  
and a sacrifice isn’t a sacrifice when you get free refills   
it didn’t cost anything  
and a god isn’t a god when he’s not worthy of worship   
just a bored petty man a few millennia older than most—drenched in the same sins, controlled by the same appetites  
the appetites that tell him to shake his fist at heaven. and burn in his chest like poisonous pride.   
and say   
“I could do it better”   
“I could be better”   
“I am better”   
“Give me what I’m owed”

‘the gods demand respect’ they say  
but really the gods are asking for the sky to be pulled down on their heads  
for Olympus to be pulled from beneath their feet  
brick by brick if it has to be  
the titans usurped the sky   
the gods usurped the titans  
this is the order of things 

and the ancient voice of the titan lord comes into his dreams  
and says ‘you need power behind your vision, i can give it to you’  
and says ‘you need knowledge of their weaknesses, i created them’  
and says ‘i have waited for thousands of years for someone as special as you’   
and it’s gasoline on the fiery pride in his chest—more, more  
“what are your orders” he says   
“i will do what my lord commands” he says

sing o muse of Luke Castellan god-born—the enemy of the gods that the gods created   
who cost so many lives for the sake of his pride

the whispers of the titan begin to take shape:  
a power play with the promise of divine war  
a bolt, a bag, and a boy  
but the bag was handled by the weak and fickle War god  
and the bolt ended up back in the fist of Zeus  
and the boy—the boy became a foe.

years he spends in a war of his own making  
drunk on his power  
overseeing his army  
doom of the demigods  
heir apparent of heaven itself

then the price goes up

his master, the ancient titan, the lord of time itself speaks again:  
“i will take a physical form to lead the assault upon my weak children the gods”  
“yes, master”  
“i require a body, i am essence only in the Pit”  
“yes, master”  
“my most loyal servant, for this task I require you.”

he wakes trembling, and still under the gaze of the titan  
this trade had never been part of the terms  
his own annihilation for the resurrection of his master,  
his own life in exchange for victory for his cause  
was it even his cause any more?  
his shaking hands against sweat soaked sheets say No  
this isn’t the pride and the glory I was promised  
this is slavery  
sacrifice  
another hungry god demanding my soul

the sun rises over the ruins of the black palace  
and he flees in terror  
to the last vestige of hope he has  
(he tore his sheets to make a white flag of truce)  
the girl who opens the door isn’t the little girl he used to know  
and the grey eyes that used to look at him with such admiration have been hardened by hurt and distrust  
but the knife she brandishes as she tells him to leave and never come back  
is the one he pressed into her tiny shaking hands seven years ago  
he resigns himself to his fate  
he has nowhere else to turn  
and kneels before the sarcophagus   
and lets the voice of the titan fill his mind

“you must first prepare yourself”  
a horrifying ritual that takes him places he swore never to return to  
he finds himself feeling like a child again  
as ten years later he stands on a porch in Connecticut  
just trying to steel his nerves to knock  
“hi, mom” he says  
“i missed you too” he says  
“i need something from you” he says  
and all the while he never quite meets her eyes  
“i give you my blessing” she says  
“promise me you’ll be careful” she says  
“my beautiful boy” she calls him  
and a 22 year old man sheds silent tears on the porch  
after tearing himself away from this broken old woman  
and he tells himself ‘this is what the gods do—they ruin you and abandon you’

the ghost on the banks of the river tells him to turn back  
another god-born hero utterly impervious to everything but fate  
(everything but fate and his own treacherous pride)  
he walks into the current thinking about the Last Good Days  
before the satyr found them, before the monsters got worse,   
before his tiny new family was shattered forever  
and he sees them—through the searing pain of the Styx  
he sees blue eyes and freckles and black hair and   
a smile that made him believe in something  
and he sees gray eyes and blonde curls and a small hand that he   
used to have to hold in the dark  
in the end its always them—around a campfire in Virginia,   
under cold stars in Delaware, fighting monsters in Jersey,  
in his dreams, in his memories, in the back of his mind, always.  
his family.

the glowing sarcophagus is cold as he obediently lies down in it  
still very much alive  
fear swelling in his throat as the lid slides shut  
darkness  
shallow breaths  
alone with the spirit of the titan lord  
he knows no more

fuzzy light filters through golden irises  
he opens his mouth  
another voice speaks from it   
threats and lies  
commands of his army  
the hands that used to be his own grasp an immortal’s weapon  
“at last” the titan lord speaks from his mouth, and laughs

how can he be a prisoner in his own body?  
how had his soul survived crushed but not destroyed?  
silenced but not damned   
an evil twilight   
to watch the fruits of his labors unfold at another’s hands  
he has no more thoughts  
only pain and a will  
end this   
end this

he finds it in himself to wrestle for control  
to fight a titan  
control:  
he feels it in his fingers and in his chest   
doubled over, gasping, gasping  
—he feels it when its taken back just as quickly  
‘the boy is dead. his spirit is crushed’ his mouth says  
I'm still here, he cries out inside, let me die let me die

sing, o muse, of the prophecy fulfilled—a life cut short, a terrible tragedy

he wakes up in ashes blinking the titan out of his eyes  
and he sees gray eyes and blonde curls and a small hand that he   
used to have to hold in the dark reaching for him  
“family, Luke, you promised”  
promise. family.  
theres blood on her face  
he put it there.

no. no.   
Olympus can come down  
camp can burn  
demigods can die by the dozens  
but she won’t feel any of it  
not by his hand   
she stays safe. always.

the titan doesn’t know love  
he doesn’t show mercy  
his essence burns against it  
not much time   
the straps of his armor,   
the leather grip of the knife,  
gritted teeth,   
and a glory-less victory over himself  
give way to whispered farewells  
and the paths of the dead

and now it’s just dark and things don’t end happily   
sing o muse of the dead children—collateral damage in the wars of immortals  
who never even cared about them


End file.
